The fluorescent lights overhead feel harsh and unforgiving. The hallway is eerily silent, save for a persistent buzzing sound in the distance. It seems like the furniture hasn’t been touched since the ‘70s, and greasy fingerprints mar the cover of an old magazine. I lean closer to see the date — 2009. Perhaps I’m not really here; maybe I’ve wandered into some strange time warp. That would certainly explain the surrealness of it all.
A chill runs through me, an unsettling feeling of being out of place. On a day like today, I desperately wish I could be surrounded by familiar comforts.
“Ms. Parker?”
I rise slowly, dragging my feet toward the door, as if I could buy myself a few precious seconds before the inevitable. The doctor’s accent is unfamiliar, and while her expression is neutral, it leaves me longing for a hint of warmth. Why does it feel so cold in here?
My son, Ethan, is blissfully unaware of the gravity of the situation, chatting with his dad in the background. Please, just don’t let him touch the toys. I can’t deal with germs right now. Just focus.
The doctor flips through my test results, her thick glasses perched on her nose. My eyes fixate on her lips as she pronounces the word slowly: “m-i-s-c-a-r-r-i-a-g-e.” A buzzing sound fills my ears, and suddenly, I’m dizzy.
Tears stream down my face, and my shoulders shake as I grab a tissue from her desk. Everything is a blur through my tear-filled eyes, and I feel an overwhelming wave of shame for not keeping it together. I catch a glimpse of empathy in her gaze, or maybe it’s just discomfort; it’s hard to tell if she knows how to respond to such raw emotion.
As we step outside, reality crashes down on me. It’s happened to me—one of my greatest fears has come to pass. I’ve had a miscarriage—well, not quite yet. Now, my body must do what it needs to do.
And now, I’m left waiting.
Waiting and running to the bathroom every twelve minutes, checking for signs of what’s to come. I brace myself for the inevitable pain, lining my bed with towels in hopes of salvaging the sheets.
You begin to dissect every choice you made, every bite you took, every product you used. Was it just bad luck? A flawed genetic code? Then the guilt sets in. I recall moments when I wasn’t kind; maybe the universe is punishing me. Maybe I deserve this. Shame washes over me.
Tears hit me in waves. I still can’t indulge in a drink, I still need to take my vitamins, and I must watch my caffeine intake. The doctor had said I might still be pregnant, but she didn’t want me to cling to that hope either. The odds were against me. So, here I am, suspended in this state of being half-pregnant.
The hormones are still raging, but not quite as strongly as they should be. They’re enough to trigger a teenage-like breakout on my face and an all-consuming urge to cry. I find myself tearing up during a scene from my favorite show because the last time I watched it, I was pregnant. I cry while reading bedtime stories to Ethan, remembering that last night, I thought I was carrying another life.
Suddenly, an overwhelming urge to clean takes over me. Every speck of dust seems magnified, demanding my attention. Why is everything so dirty? I need to scrub my surroundings. It feels like survival, but I know better; it’s a sign of depression. I recognize the symptoms. I’ve been here before. But I won’t let it consume me—at least not yet.
Right now, I must confront these feelings. Depression is ugly and painful, but I understand that it thrives on being repressed. If I don’t allow myself to process this, it will rear its head unexpectedly, like a monster at a school event.
No, I need to face it head-on. I need to feel everything, just as Eleven confronts the Demogorgon. I’m looking at you, monster.
My heart breaks. It aches with a depth I can hardly describe. I don’t care what anyone thinks. This was the beginning of something beautiful—a new adventure, a new life. Ethan was going to have a sibling. Our family was meant to grow to four. But now, it seems that dream has slipped away.
I struggle to voice what has happened. I feel like I’ve failed—failed our unborn child, my husband, and Ethan. I doubt anyone can truly grasp the weight of this loss.
“It happens in 20% of pregnancies.”
“I know someone who had two.”
“At least it’s still early.”
“At least you already have one.”
“You can try again soon.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
The comments are endless. While people often try to console you, the natural instinct seems to be to downplay your pain or avoid the subject altogether. Please don’t. I know you mean well, but just acknowledge that my experience, however brief, was real. The pain is real. Just be present. Listen quietly while I cry. Be there when the date that would have been my due date arrives.
For now, I want the universe to know that I have stared into the depths of loss. If sharing my story helps even one person feel less alone, then perhaps some good can emerge from this pain.
To the almost-mother reading this, I understand your wait, your ache, your questions, and your fears.
I know what it’s like to be half-fucking-pregnant.
In Summary
In summary, the author shares the heart-wrenching experience of dealing with a miscarriage, capturing the feelings of loss, guilt, and isolation that often accompany such an event. The narrative explores the emotional rollercoaster of waiting, the hormonal aftermath, and the conflicting emotions of despair and longing for connection and understanding from others. By sharing this personal journey, the author hopes to comfort those who have faced similar struggles, reminding them that they are not alone in their grief.
Keyphrase: miscarriage experience
Tags: home insemination kit, home insemination syringe, self insemination